


foxtrot

by v3ilfire



Series: between fields of fire and miles to go [2]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-22
Updated: 2016-02-22
Packaged: 2018-05-22 16:08:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,513
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6086155
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/v3ilfire/pseuds/v3ilfire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"The kiss itself was nothing new, not really, not when they’d slept together more times than Camilla cared to recount, but a kiss had never been more than a lead-in to something else. As a standalone gesture, it felt… odd."</p>
            </blockquote>





	foxtrot

**Author's Note:**

> I SHOULD BE WORKING ON MY HOMEWORK ( :
> 
> 4/9: edited for grammar bc it got fucked up in copy/pasting at some point

It’s not that Camilla didn’t _like_ parties - she liked them well enough, in fact, to even let herself be excited for this one. They’d spent so many months running from the Blight and fighting a war that the sheer thought of occupying some back alleys in Denerim with some music and food visibly lifted the spirits of most of her companions - even Morrigan was less biting to Alistair than usual. Back in Highever, a party meant a rotary of dresses and jewelry and, in later years, young men that were introduced with the noble equivalent of a wink and a nod: the phrase, ‘he’s a _delightful_ young man.’ Thankfully, there were no _delightful_ young men in Denerim and Camilla could safely stick to her boots and slacks and a light breastplate instead of itchy fineries and - she shuddered to even think of them - _corsets._ It wasn’t all fated to be unfamiliar, however, because she could at least count on continuing her now four-year tradition of sneaking food to her dog underneath a table.

The mabari was content to nap while Camilla adjusted her belts and buckles, looking for some middle ground between functional and, well… at least a _little_ more tailored-looking.  She even tried sweeping her cropped hair back a little, despite the fact that she’d never been good at doing anything with it even when it was long and manageable. “Gideon,” she finally called, to which the dog raised a single ear. “Party time. Up you go.” Gideon, knowing full well what _party_ meant, was happy to nudge his human along as she locked her door at the Gnawed Noble and made her way downstairs.

The moment she opened the front door onto the Market square, Camilla was hit with the heavy sweetness of mulled wine and roasted meat. And there was music - she wasn’t sure if a bunch of middle-aged men fucking around on a bunch of makeshift instruments counted as a _band_ , but as far as she could tell, they kept a rhythm well enough for people to dance and enjoy themselves. She was about to look for her friends when Gideon’s more sensitive nose took control of him, and he began pushing his painfully slow human in the direction of the nearest food stand. Only once the hound was happily gnawing on a turkey leg (and receiving clumsy but well-intentioned pets from the cook’s two-year-old) did Camilla have a moment to finally scan the people who’d poured out for this impromptu festival.

“I was beginning to think you would not be joining us.” Zevran draped his arm over the Warden's shoulder, glass of wine already in hand. Whatever biting comment Camilla had on her tongue died out the moment she turned and set her eyes on the elf, who’d somehow procured a silk dress shirt for the event and wore it almost as well as the slight glow of intoxication on his cheeks. Luckily, he didn’t notice her doe-eyes before the band decided to start a new song. “Would you care for a dance, my dear Warden?”  
“I don’t dance,” she said, crossing her arms sternly over her chest. “How are you drunk _already_ ?”  
“Everyone _dances_. How does one _not_ dance?”  
“By refusing drunk elves, that’s how. Now get _off_.” Zevran laughed as she pushed him upright again, thankfully mistaking the flush in her face to be caused by frustration and not the way that his hair lay loose and flowing about his shoulders.  
“You know where to find me if you change your mind,” he said, and merged right back into the crowd. It didn’t take him long to find a willing dance partner, leaving Camilla an unwilling victim of her own inexplicable and traitorous feelings.

She was, thankfully, soon distracted by a mug of ale being thrust into her hands, relieved to find Alistair at her side.  
“Did the Couslands always wear armor to parties?” Camilla rolled her eyes and took a swig of the bitter brew, her face contorting a bit in its aftermath.  
“I’ll wear a corset the same day _you_ do.”  
“Aw, I never thought you’d ask.” When there was no biting response from his fellow Warden, Alistair traced her line of vision into the crowd. Being a full two heads taller than his companion made finding the source of her foul mood _that_ much easier, though honestly, he could have _guessed_. “So is your plan to just stand around and be jealous, or maybe, I don’t know, tell him how you feel?”  
“Tell who _what_?” _Now_ she was looking at him, and Alistair immediately regretted opening his big mouth. Evidently the only two people who hadn’t noticed the longing sighs and puppy eyes were the ones making them.  
“You know,” he continued, “maybe just tell Zevran you like him?” Camilla was about to open fire on that comment when she was distracted by the cheering of a small crowd of men. She leaned around Alistair to take a glance, and discovered that an arm-wrestling competition had been started in perfect sync with her now-sour mood. Alistair was about to suggest perhaps staying away from the large drunk men, but Camilla had already chugged down the rest of her drink and thrust the empty mug back into his hands.

The winner of the last round was still busy celebrating his last win when Camilla dropped herself on the seat across from him, arm already positioned on the crate. The man was dumbfounded for one solid second before bursting into laughter.  
“What’s this? A little _girl_? Why don’t you go back to your mum, sweetie, this isn’t the kind of game you’d like to play.”  
“Five sovereigns says I kick your sorry ass into oblivion.” The man’s surprise was instantly evident. Apparently, talking back wasn’t a thing he expected _little girls_ to do.  
“What?” Camilla groaned and reached into her coin purse, pulling five gold coins from it and slamming them onto the crate-made-table.  
“Five sovereigns says this _little girl_ eats your sorry ass for breakfast, lunch, and dinner for the next week, you upright excuse for a cockroach. In or out?”  
“Oh, you’re gonna be real sorry about that, runt. In,” he growled, and set his arm against Camilla’s. She grinned. She'd take runt over little girl any day.

To be fair, the man tried his damn best, but despite that Camilla found herself exerting a fairly marginal amount of effort against her opponent’s sweating forehead and heavy breathing. She tried to at least give him a fair show, but her mood did not grant her any extra patience, and so within seconds Camilla had slammed the man’s hand down to the tune of silence from the onlookers.  
“That’ll be five sovereigns,” she said with a smile. The coins were nearly thrown at her, but hey, she was five sovereigns richer and now facing a line of men ready to test their strength against a seemingly tiny redhead, each in disbelief and clearly prepping for an easy win. Winning, she found, did _wonders_ for the ill-disposed.

Zevran soon had his fill of dancing with strangers and left the thick of the crowd to look for his Warden again, but she had seemingly vanished. He was about to ask Morrigan (who, along with Sten, looked so enthralled by the pastries they were eating, he’d have been sorry to interrupt them), but the loud cheering coming from his left gave him all the answer he needed. He shouldn’t have been surprised - he let Camilla out of his sight for a full fifteen minutes. Of _course_ she found a throng of old men to embarrass.

Camilla had become a crowd favorite by her fifth victory - mostly because by then she’d become a surefire bet for those who weren’t in total disbelief at the young woman’s feats of strength. She’d finally run out of competitors, it seemed, for she stood up and shook the hands of those who’d profited handsomely off her winning streak and was handed a nearly overflowing mug of ale. And - if her walk was any indicator - that wasn’t the first they’d bought her.  
“I see you are finally having a good time,” he said, meeting her halfway.  
“I just won us a _ridiculous_ amount of money,” she slurred back. “I’m fucking having a _great_ time.” Camilla made the mistake of setting her now-empty mug on the nearest surface, leaving her hands free for Zevran to take and pull her by.  
“Then, perhaps you’d like to celebrate your victory with a dance?”  
“Wh -- Maker’s rotten asshole, what is it with you and dancing? I know how to waltz and foxtrot and those don’t count for shit.” Despite her whining, Zevran noticed that she followed him willingly enough (though she was stumbling slightly). A welcome change, he thought, to her obstinate stick-in-the-mud behavior from earlier, adorable as it was.

“Then I shall teach you. It is simple, I promise. Even a child could do it,” he said, and nodded towards the little girl swaying side-to-side as she sat on a sleeping Gideon’s back. Camilla smiled at the sight, distracted just long enough to not notice that the elf had placed one of her hands on his shoulder and took the other in his own, and was now beginning to lead her to the rhythm of the music. She remembered how _that_ felt - her mother had asked Ser Gilmore to try to teach her on more than one occasion, but Camilla always had a way of getting him to take her for some target practice instead. There was no such escape this time; as soon as Camilla turned her head back to the elf, she was rendered speechless. Now that the sun had set, there was something about the firelight that made him glow, and in a moment of drunken clarity, she wondered if finally everyone else was able to see him the way she always did.

Unfortunately, the feeling in the pit of her stomach quickly became overwhelming, and in a desperate attempt to avert her eyes, Camilla laid her head against Zevran’s chest and tried to catch her breath. To further her bad luck, this prompted him to shift his hand from her hip to the small of her back, and that just made things _worse._  
“Zev,” she said quickly. “I’m dizzy. I think I need to lie down.”  
“How much have you had to drink?”  
“I don’t know,” she said, which was _true_ , but she knew it wasn’t that much. Regardless, Zevran was kind enough to stop his swaying and lead his partner back to the Gnawed Noble.

Once inside her room, Camilla toed her boots off and kicked them aside, ready to start fumbling with her belts and buckles again when the elf pushed her hands aside and took to assisting her.  
“Were the darkspawn in attendance tonight after all?” he asked, teasing.  
“Sod off,” Camilla grouched back, but it only made him laugh, which only made _her_ knees buckle a little. Once Zevran was done peeling her meager plate from her chest, he reached for the buttons on his own shirt, but to his surprise, Camilla stopped him.  
“You… do not want me to stay?”  
“It’s not -- no, I… we don’t get a lot of time to have fun. You don’t have to turn in early just because I am.”  
“It is not a prob -”  
“Zev. Really. At least go have another drink for me.” Zevran remained unconvinced, but let his hands drop to his sides anyway.  
“As you wish, my dear Warden,” was all he said before turning to leave, but there was just enough alcohol in Camilla’s blood to make her impulsive.  
“Wait -- hold on, I uh …” _Maker_ , his eyes were fucking molten when he turned to look at her. Camilla’s brain drew a blank immediately, but just before he opened his mouth to question her, she found what little of her bodily autonomy was left to pull him down by the collar and kiss him.

The kiss itself was nothing new, not _really_ , not when they’d slept together more times than Camilla cared to recount, but a kiss had never been more than a lead-in to something else. As a standalone gesture, it felt… odd.

Zevran seemed just as confused by it when they finally parted, and in her sudden and complete panic, Camilla yelled something incomprehensible about feeling ill and pushed the elf right out the door. She stayed pressed against it in the silence, all the way until she heard his footsteps retreat and make their way slowly down the stairs. Still wide-eyed and a little breathless, Camilla moved to her bed and flopped down atop the covers, condemning herself and swearing off drink for the rest of her life hour after hour, until sleep finally pulled her under.

She woke the next morning to the warm weight of another body behind her and the immediate feeling of guilt that she’d left Gideon outside by himself the night before. Fully ready to apologize to her hound, Camilla sat up, but soon discovered that the dog was not the body at her side. No, Gideon lay curled faithfully at her feet, but it took one glance to her periphery to spot blond hair strewn across the pillow.

Suddenly breathless once more, Camilla tried her best to sink back down onto her pillow without disturbing Zevran or the dog. But as if to spite her, the elf had already been half-awake, and pulled her closer to him by the waist the moment she was flat on the mattress again.

“Good morning,” he yawned.  
“Hi,” she said, a little more blatantly shrill than she’d hoped. “Wha- what are you doing here?”  
“If we are being honest I… do not remember. I had several more drinks when I returned to the party, and, much like you, found myself dizzied and in need of a place to lay my head.”  
“Oh,” Camilla said, clinging to _returned downstairs_. He had to have remembered that part, at least.

There was some silence between them, during which Zevran was grateful that she’d tucked her head underneath his. If he was lucky, she wouldn’t feel his heart beat heavy against his chest.  
“Does… this trouble you?” he asked finally, far too timid for either of their comfort. The pause was unbearable to him - though he didn’t know if he could blame her for being upset that a drunk elf broke into her room in the dead of night just to share a bed. It wasn’t really in the nature of their relations, after all.  
“No,” she said finally, adjusting her shoulder slightly. “I -- it’s… fine. I don’t mind.” Out of sheer relief, Zevran pressed his lips to her forehead before his better instincts could catch up with him. He’d expected her to squirm away, that he’d crossed the invisible line they were _already_ pushing out of place, but... judging by the way she draped her arm across him, she didn’t mind _that_ either.

And, well. Neither did he. Much to his own surprise, neither did he.


End file.
